


Just the Time

by plumandfinch



Category: Call the Midwife
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 12:02:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4624626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumandfinch/pseuds/plumandfinch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts the afternoon of the first Sunday in December.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just the Time

It starts the afternoon of the first Sunday in December.

Shelagh and Timothy sing their way in through the front door, their cheeks reddened in their walk home from church, a jaunty carol that he can only hear snatches of between their laughter. “Hi Dad!” is all he gets before Tim thumps down the hallway to his bedroom. Shelagh hangs up her coat before finding him, with Angela asleep on his chest and the paper in his lap on the sofa.

“Oh!” she whispers, “I didn’t realize that Angel Girl would be asleep. I’m sorry dearest. Has she been good this morning?” She leans down and smooths a kiss onto the top of the baby’s head and then greedily takes his lips in hers. When he meets them, after a breathless moment, her eyes glitter dangerously in the warm light of the living room. “Yes, my love, she’s been just fine. We were just taking a little nap but I suspect she’ll be wanting her bottle.”

Timothy reappears with colored paper and scissors and settles in at the table. “School project, Tim?” Patrick asks quietly over Angela’s head. “Nope. Mum said we’re going to start decorating for Christmas today.” Shelagh pats his shoulder as she bustles into the kitchen, “That’s right, Timmy.” Patrick shifts a little, his left arm falling asleep. “Isn’t it a little early for that?” he says mostly to himself. There is silence and he looks up to find them both staring at him, Timothy from the table and Shelagh through the hatch. He is struck for a moment how Tim has learned so many of Shelagh’s expressions in such a short time. “Now dearest,” she says with great patience, coming back into the living room as she ties her apron strings, “it is the first Sunday in Advent already. This is _just_ the time to start decorating.” Angela starts to whimper and he takes the opportunity to stretch and stand up. “I’m sure whatever you do will be lovely, my love.”

By week’s end there’s a cheery wreath on the front door, the hall and living room are festooned in Tim’s paper chains, and tantalizing smells routinely waft from the kitchen. Tim even draped the window in their bedroom with tinsel and Patrick is very pleasantly surprised to find a discreet sprig of mistletoe being hung over their bed by a blushing Shelagh.

“You are quite the Christmas fairy.” He says finally after taking advantage of the presence of that festive plant. Both the children are asleep and the house is quiet. Shelagh snuggles closer to him. “I haven’t had a Christmas like this since my mother died. We would still do something, but it was never the same. And then came nursing school, then the convent, of course.”

She stops abruptly and he knows she’s thinking about last year. He tightens his embrace and dots several small kisses on the top of her head. “I just want Timmy to have good Christmas memories and Angela too, when she’s old enough. Timothy has certainly had enough bad Christmases to last a lifetime.” He holds her even tighter and they lay together silently for awhile.  He is almost asleep when she says his name.

“Patrick?”

“Yes, love?”

“Do you think I’m going overboard?”

He thinks for a moment about the presents piling up in nooks and crannies all over the flat, about the sweater she’s been painstakingly knitting for the past few weeks, the cookies and pies and cakes that have been baked. Then he thinks about how much time Timothy’s been spending with them in the evenings instead of in his room, the way Tim’s eyes have been lighting up when Shelagh asks for his help hanging something, and how he found them on the sofa several nights ago, taking turns reading to each other from _A Christmas Carol_. He kisses her properly this time, catching in the faint scent of the gingerbread she baked that very afternoon. “No, my love, I think that you are doing just fine.”


End file.
